Tethered
by A Ginger
Summary: Sam and Dean need Castiel's help to escape a demonic scheme. Plot-driven SLASH with plenty of classic Supernatural-style butt-whoopin'
1. Bad Luck or No Luck at All

**A/N: This series is going to be a bit different from other stories I've posted here thus far. Writing sex is fun and all, but it does get a tad redundant. So here you are: the best of both worlds! I'm going to write this fic a bit truer to the canon style of events on the show, meaning there'll be a plot. If you really don't want plot, sorry. Me, personally, I prefer plot stories that incorporate the romance (yes, there will be slash in this, folks!) Hopefully you enjoy reading it – I've enjoyed writing it! Please let me know what you think with a review! It would really help me out :]**

**-Dani**

**~o~**

**Tethered**

**Chapter One: Bad Luck or No Luck at All**

They hadn't intended on stopping in Pitchford Township on their way through Illinois, but the gas tank had other plans. The Impala's gas meter was tipped dangerously to the negative when Dean glanced down at it. It was nearly midnight, and in the back of Dean's conscience he knew he should find somewhere to stop for the night. He was tired (closer to cranky, really), and Sam hadn't been anywhere close to consciousness since they stopped for dinner in Mayberry several hours back.

"_Residents in the following areas should be advised, violent thunderstorms are headed toward: Shelby, Greenfield, Pitchford, and Berkley. Repeat: all residents in the area should take cover as soon—_"

Dean flicked off the radio with one jerk of his wrist. The clouds had been ominous since they last filled up for gas, and now the sky was downright miserable. Although it was supposed to be a full moon, Dean needed every watt of light that the Impala's headlamps could provide. The air had that scent to it, too; that fresh, wet smell that came about whenever a big summer storm was close.

Up ahead was a road sign, reading, "_Pitchford Township: next exit._" Just as Dean drove past it, the first burst of lightening could be heard off in the distance. Subconsciously, Dean ticked off the seconds before the thunder clap. He barely made it to two before the car practically shook with the sound.

Sam jerked awake. No one had ever accused the kid of being a deep sleeper. He made soft grunting noises as he tried to untangle his long limbs from the contorted position he'd wrenched himself into. The Impala was really no place for a guy of Sam's size to be catching his beauty sleep.

"Wake up, dude," Dean said. "We're gonna stop. Need gas, anyway." He pulled the car onto the off-ramp of the highway, headed toward a cluster of lights in the distance.

Pitchford was a small town like all the others. The buildings they passed were fairly well-kept, and hell, the roads were paved so Dean really saw nothing to complain about. The local general store was down-home country style, as were the library, town hall, and whatever residences they could see. Another quaint, friggin' town.

Sam yawned, rubbing his eye gently with a balled fist. "I don't think we're gonna find a motel here, Dean."

Well, they weren't going to find much of anything, really, seeing as the rain chose that moment to begin throwing itself downward. The Impala's wipers almost couldn't respond fast enough to the gallons of water being hurled at them. Another clap of thunder rocked the air.

Dean chuckled in the back of his throat. "Ain't that a B-and-B up ahead?"

Just at the end of the main street, yes, was a two-story bed and breakfast. The house was white, its shutters a pastel purple and illuminated by one of Pitchford's few streetlamps. Across the street were a small park and a large oak tree from which a tire swing was hung. Dean pulled the car to a stop at the side of the road, parking just in front of the inn. Despite the torrential winds that had flared up, a sign that declared the inn to have vacancies hung stead-fast to the side of the building.

"I dunno, Dean," Sam said warily. "This isn't really…" he trailed off, shrugging.

Nice places made the Winchesters nervous on principle. Joints like this – that were more likely to house apple pie families and retirees – weren't exactly their scene, and they were willing to admit it. They could play nice with the locals all they wanted; folks still gave them cautious stares no matter what they did. It was like they were a different breed.

Dean sighed, one hand going up to rub his cheek absently. He needed a shave and a warm bed, anything to get out of the damn car and _away_ from all this Goddamn rain.

"Trust me, Sammy," Dean said. "It's only for a night, alright? No one's gonna bite you. Promise," he added, chuckling. He reached into the glove compartment for one of their bogus credit cards. Flipping up the collar of his jacket, he took the keys from the ignition and led the way into the downpour. The tell-tale open and close of the passenger side door assured Dean that his brother was close behind him.

Initially, upon finding that the inn was warm, dry, and unlocked, Dean was relieved. Anything, he thought, was better than sleeping another night at the side of the road curled up next to the steering wheel. He shook water droplets from his short hair, surprised at being so drenched from a mere five seconds outside.

When Dean actually turned his attentions to their surroundings, however, his feelings of relief turned quickly to mild disgust.

"Dean," came Sam's voice from behind him, "this place is pink."

They were standing in the pinkest room in all creation. It was only a mudroom – a foyer for guests to leave their umbrellas in the umbrella stand or look at fliers on the short pink table at one end of the small hallway. The wallpaper was a rosy floral pattern, the moldings were pink, even the damn carpet. The Winchesters exchanged their skeptical glances, but Dean was determined to get himself into a real bed – no matter how fuchsia, salmon, or magenta that bed was.

Dean continued down the entryway and came into the main area. There was a desk directly ahead of him, and a light pink living room set was to his left in front of a large fireplace. And yes, all of the décor followed the same color scheme as the foyer.

They approached the desk. It was empty of any employee, but at the right side of the chest-level countertop was a small gold bell. Dean gave it an experimental tap, sounding a dainty twinkling sound from its metal form.

Sam sighed, shaking his head. "No one's gonna be—"

Before Sam could doubt the presence of any conscious person, a door behind the desk gave a small scuffling sound, as if someone was moving behind it. A moment later, the door opened to reveal a pot-bellied man pulling a pastel purple rob over his pajamas.

"Uh, hi," Dean said to the man. "Sorry to pull you outta bed."

The man was almost totally bald, save for the twin streaks of gray hair just above his ears that stretched around to the back of his head. He had an immense silvery mustache, underneath which he was smiling at the two men.

"Don't worry, don't worry," the man said, waving a hand. "Wasn't asleep, no, no." He fixed a pair of glasses onto his large nose and sat down at the desk. After shuffling some papers, he looked back up at Dean. "You'll be needing a room then, huh? This storm – don't know how anyone could even sleep through it."

Dean stared at the strange man for a moment. Every candy bar had its nuts, he supposed, but this old geezer who lived in a _pink_ _house_ was the grand prize weirdo.

"Yeah, it's wild, isn't it?" Sam stepped in, realizing Dean's muted surprise. "But yes, please, we'd like a room."

"Just one?" the man said, raising one scraggly eyebrow.

"Uh, yeah," Sam said. "One room with two beds, if you've got it."

"Sorry," the man replied. He seemed to look closer at the two men. "All we got's left is king-sized beds."

"That's fine," Dean said. He quickly pulled out his wallet. "You take credit?"

**~o~**

Before leaving them to their own devices, the man – who introduced himself to be Tom, the Pink Place's owner – took a moment to warn them about how bad the thunderstorms usually got this time of year. "Wouldn't be surprised if we lose power," Tom said gravely. "Might even lose the phones, too. That happened last year."

Sam assured Tom that they had cell phones, just in case, but he thanked him for his concern. Both the Winchesters were glad to see Tom leave.

"Dude looks at us like we're nuts cause we're gonna share a bed and _he's_ the one runnin' an inn called 'the Pink Place'?" Dean peeled off his wet t-shirt and jeans, tossing them into a pile below the window. He fell into bed with a scoff at Tom's expense.

Sam chuckled, back turned to his brother as he pulled off his own clothes. "Yeah, next time _I_ pick where we stay." He looked over his shoulder at Dean, frowning. "Come on, Dean, put on some clothes, at least! I didn't bring the duffle bags in from the car for nothin'."

Dean glanced at his brother. Yep, Sammy was making his bitch-face again. The nagging only got worse when Sam was tired. Begrudgingly, Dean pulled himself out of bed and forced himself to put on a t-shirt. No way was he wearing pants. Hell, he'd probably be sleeping naked if he weren't sleeping next to his brother. Sam had issues with nakedness – must have been an annoying-kid-brother thing.

When they were both lying under the covers (and trying to ignore just how _pink_ their room was), Sam stirred Dean from his half-sleep with a jab to his brother's ribs.

"Christ, Sammy, wuzzit?" Dean grumbled. He managed to open his eyes, finding that Sam seemed worried about something.

Sam shrugged slightly. "Dunno. Just had this weird feeling. Don't you feel it too?"

"Feel _what_? Other than how friggin' cold your feet are."

Sam remained straight-faced. "No, I mean, don't you feel like something's not right?"

Dean recognized that look on Sam's face, even if he wasn't picking up on any bad vibes. Sam wasn't being stupid or worrisome; he was genuinely troubled. Working beside his brother had taught Dean that sometimes, Sam knew what he was talking about. Blame it on the demon blood or whatever else, but the kid knew a bad situation when he saw one.

"Tell you what," Dean said, sighing. "I'll give Cas a call in the morning and tell him to come. He'll be able to tell you for sure if there's any bad mojo around here."

Sam looked up at the ceiling, just staring blankly at it for a few moments. "You promise you'll call?"

"Yeah, man, in the morning." Dean was already closing his eyes, rolling over and ready for sleep. He'd call on the angel later, but for now, all he wanted was a night's rest. In moments, he was asleep. Little did he know, his brother wouldn't get any sleep that night.

**~o~**

If it weren't for bad luck, Sam knew that they wouldn't have any luck at all. That's what he told himself when he stood on the front porch of the pink-inn-from-Hell, watching a team of volunteer firemen try to lift a fifteen-foot tree from the remains of the Impala.

Storms in Pitchford were bad. That's what Tom had said only last night. And what happened? A damn tree _fell over_ and _landed_ on the _car_. The damage done wasn't anything unfixable. Really, it wasn't like the time they'd been hit by the semi-truck or anything. But from the way Dean was carrying on, you'd think someone had just stabbed his child in the gut with a machete. Okay, maybe that was a bit dramatic. Then again, Sam didn't know what else to compare his brother's current level of rage to.

Down on the lawn, Dean was shouting in the faces of several policemen, Tom the inn-keeper, and the local lawyer of Pitchford township. It was probably for the best that Dean was causing a scene; the more he pissed people off, the less likely they'd be to inspect the car, therefore avoiding the awkward discovery of the Winchester arsenal.

From where he stood Sam could see the Impala quite clearly. The tree had fallen over from across the street, landing only on the Impala and nothing else. A foot to the left and disaster would have been completely avoided. As it were, the front end of the '67 Chevy was completely smashed in. Odds were, the engine would need some major work before they could go _anywhere_.

"We're real sorry, Mr. Lanier, but it's not like we can control where trees fall 'round here," one of the cops was saying to Dean.

They were using fake names, obviously. Here, they were Sam and Dean Lanier, brothers traveling to across the state to pay their little sister and her husband a visit. Their bogus story didn't matter, really. What _did_ matter was the very prevalent possibility that Dean was three seconds from clocking the police officer in front of him.

Dean clenched and unclenched his hands. Sam could almost see him counting to ten in his head – not that the method was helping the color in his face any. If he changed shades just a little bit more, Dean would have blended in with Tom's foyer.

Several minutes later, Dean stomped up the porch stairs and threw himself down on the steps. He sat with his elbows on his knees, staring intently at the wood chipper that was slowly destroying the tree that had killed his baby girl. Knowing he was ran the risk of being physically attacked, Sam sat beside his brother, putting one hand to his shoulder.

"Sorry, Dean," Sam said.

Dean's jaw was one hard line, like he was biting his tongue or grinding his teeth. So long as he wasn't throwing any punches, Sam didn't care _what_ he did. "The mechanic in town says he'll let me use his garage to fix her up. Not sure if he's got the parts in stock though, but he says he'll put in the order."

Sam almost chuckled. Of course Dean wouldn't leave his car in the hands of a "professional." He was probably the only one who could repair the Impala just right. "So how long do you think we'll be in town?"

"Anywhere from two days to a week," Dean said. He gave a heavy sigh. "Don't really care what she looks like right now. As soon as I get her runnin', I was gonna drive us over to Bobby's so I can fix her up there. I'm gonna go out of my skull in this place, Sammy."

A small crowd had formed on the side of the street that the tree had fallen from. Pitchford was a small, close-knit place full of housewives and well-mannered old folk. Currently, their audience consisted of some busy-body blue haired old ladies and several middle aged women. Half a dozen kids stood close by to the same group, messing around on skateboards or jumping over puddles and fallen branches that had accumulated during the night's storm. The sky was still murky grey and the air was humid, thick. It would probably start storming again soon.

The Impala was eventually towed to Barry's Garage, owned by a heavy-set man named Barry Gerlander. Barry was greasy and smelled like cat piss, and he had a terrible habit of hovering over Dean's shoulder while he was trying to work. After realizing that Dean would strangle the mechanic if left alone with him, Sam remained in the garage with his brother. Dean didn't say much while he worked, but Sam didn't mind. After a while, Barry grew bored of being ignored, and retreated to his office to watch porn on his computer and take a nap.

Sam had been sitting there for an hour, watching Dean toil over the Impala. The damage was worse than expected, and of course, Barry didn't have the parts they needed. All Dean could do was try to knock out some of the body damage and do minor repairs to the mechanics. The rain had picked up again. Wind blew in underneath the flimsy garage door, as did rain.

"You got your phone on you?" Sam said.

Dean didn't acknowledge his brother for a while. He was currently underneath the Impala, tinkering with something. When he wheeled himself out, there were oil stains all over his face and neck. Sam didn't balk at the grime; it suited Dean, in a way. If there had been any girls in the garage, Sam knew they'd be squealing.

"What?" Dean said gruffly. He sat up, rubbing a rag between his hands.

"Your phone," Sam repeated. "Do you have it?"

Dean dug into his jeans pocket, after a moment producing his cell phone. "Why do you need it?"

Sam's own phone was sitting beside him on one of the milk crates he'd pulled over beside the Impala. "Well I can't get reception on mine," he said. "Damn. Yours isn't working either." The same sickly stirring sensation was back in Sam's gut. It was the same anxiety he'd felt the night before, only worse. Major storms, knocked-out cell reception…this wasn't looking good. The last time they'd run into something like this, they'd come face-to-face with a town full of demons.

"Go ask Barry if you can use his phone," Dean said. "Power's still on. Maybe the phone lines still work, too."

It was a shot in the dark and both men knew it. Where there was smoke, sometimes there was fire. In their case, where there was smoke, it was usually black and demonic.

Sam knocked on the door of Barry's office. It took a minute or two, but the stout mechanic came to the door and asked Sam if they were done fixing the damn car yet.

"Uh, no, sir, not yet," Sam said. "I was wondering if I could use your phone, though?"

"What for?"

"Well, we're supposed to be visiting our sister. She's gonna be worried sick when we don't show up today like we were supposed to."

Barry looked up at Sam, beetle-black eyebrows lifting slightly. "Sure, don't see why not. Come on in, then." He stepped aside and gestured to the lime-green phone hanging from the wall of his office.

Sam ignored the sweaty smell of the space and grabbed the phone. He punched in Castiel's phone number and held the receiver to his ear. What he heard was not surprising, but it made his heart drop several levels.

"Phone's dead," Sam said, mouth suddenly dry. There would be no calling Castiel for help now. And thanks to the sigils on their ribs, Cas wouldn't be able to find them, either. They were trapped. Trapped and helpless.

"Bet your ass it is, sonny boy."

Sam turned, one hand flying up to catch the blow that Barry had thrown at the back of his head. The mechanic's eyes were black and full of spite. Behind the portly man, Sam could hear Dean pounding against the locked office door that Sam hadn't notice Barry close.

Barry caught Sam by the wrists and tossed him across the expanse of his closet-sized office. Sam's head hit the window and it shattered. He felt glass break into his skin, could feel the heat of his blood mingling with the frigid rain that now poured into the office in sheets. If not for the spots in front of his eyes, Sam might have been able to stop Barry from picking him up one last time. He was thrown against another wall of the office and fell limp to the ground. Blood, smeared in streaks and blots along the wall and the floor, marked his progress from the window to where he now lay in a heap.

The last thing Sam heard before losing consciousness was the sound of Dean's voice as he called out to his brother. Sam knew he should respond, let Dean know he was all right, but his muscles were weak and oh, there was just so much blood. The younger Winchester's head hit the floor one last time and he knew no more.


	2. A Snake in the Grass

**AN: I did not mean for this story to turn into a friggin' **_**novel**_** when I started it, but I'm actually lovin' all the story-telling involved. Sorry if this chapter gets pretty gory, but I promise it will get better! And there **_**will**_** be slash!**

**Reviews would be excellent, guys. I'd love to know what your thoughts are on this series. I'm actually kind of nervous about it. Whether you love it, hate it, or really just want the boys to get naked already, let me know! **

** -G**

**~o~**

**Tethered**

**Chapter Two: Snake in the Grass**

There was something dripping. Every few seconds, a subtle _ker-plop_ broke the throbbing silence. Whatever was the source of the leak, Dean got the sense that it couldn't be good. That wasn't any normal drip; it was too thick a sound. The room smelled of blood.

Dean tried to remember where he was. He couldn't. Head hurt too bad. Then there was that damn dripping, making it too hard to think. Well, if he didn't know where he was (or had been, last time he was conscious) it probably didn't matter. All there was now was dark. Dark, dripping, and the smell of blood. He let his head drop back down to his chest, ready to fall back into whatever senseless void he'd emerged from, when he thought of something terrible:

He was alone.

Even if he was lost in the dark, Dean's brain reminded him there was someone more important than himself that warranted concern.

"S-Sam?" Dean's tongue was dry. It felt like a bit of wood in his mouth.

Nothing answered. Only dripping.

Not only did his head hurt, his muscles were lax and useless._ Can't move, can't move_. Nothing but that dripping sound and his dry tongue. For a moment he struggled uselessly, but his brain couldn't order his arms to listen, couldn't get his legs to respond. He was stuck, trapped in some senseless place too far above unconsciousness to drift into the relief of sleep.

Where was Sam? If Sam were there he could help. Or maybe Sam was just as trapped.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Dean remembered black eyes. The smell of motor oil. Rain. Wind.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

He'd been running. Screaming. Trying to fight. Trying to get in. No, no, it was too late to help. Sam was… Sam was…

"Demons," he gasped, the word as soiled and terrible in his throat as the creatures themselves. He was starting to remember. The storm, the inn, the fallen tree, the old garage. Then that demon. The demon possessing Barry. It had cornered Sam before Dean even knew what was happening. And Cas…they needed Cas. Cas could help them. Dean remembered that much; they were going to call Cas, because Cas couldn't find them. Cas couldn't find them. Shit.

It was like inching his way closer to the surface, being pulled down in one direction but so desperate for the other. He felt his memory kick in, the gears in his head turn although their progress was slow and labored. His _head_ – God dammit, his head. There was blood pumping in his ears, strumming a rapid beat above the sharp twang of the dripping. He wanted out of the dark – it was putting too much focus on the pain.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

"Sammy," he said again. The sound seemed small, like he was in some empty place. Empty and cold. Even as he thought it, he shivered. The tremor through his muscles assured him somehow that at least he wasn't dead. Probably. Dammit, why couldn't he see?

A small sound scuffled some length away from Dean. His ear twitched immediately, as if pulling him in the direction of something other than the darkness and dripping. Whatever it was that made the noise made it again, louder and closer this time.

"Sam?" His voice was almost desperate. He coughed at the dryness in his throat.

When he heard the sound again, it was right beside him. It was something large, human-sized. Dean flinched instinctively away from the thing. That wasn't Sam. Couldn't be.

Something touched his shoulder, moving to the front of his chest and slowly trailing up his neck, ending at his chin. He became aware that someone was sitting on his legs. The thing, the stranger, made a noise like a chuckle.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean tried to sound stern, strong, authoritative. But his voice was no more than a dry husk. He coughed again.

The someone tutted, clucking their tongue against the roof of their mouth. Dean already hated this douche bag, demon or no demon. Their weight was settled with far too much familiarity over Dean's lap. If he could move his legs, he'd kick the intruder off.

"Feeling a little funny, huh Dean?" said a woman's voice. She spoke in the same slick, patronizing tone that all demons favored. The whispering waft of her breath blew over Dean's face, making him aware of just how close she was. "Yeah, sorry about all this bull-shit. But you Winchesters are tricky little things. Can't have you just sneaking off, now can we? Not after we put so much work into getting you here." A hand touched his face. It was cold. As she moved her hand over his cheek, Dean realized that he was bleeding; the warm, slick wetness on his skin only then became so apparent.

"What'd you do to me, you bitch?" Dean said, slurring more than anything else. There was an unfamiliar queasiness bubbling through his stomach. He must have lost a lot of blood already, and whatever demon mojo this chick was pulling on him, it definitely wasn't helping.

The she-demon laughed, low and arrogant. "Oh, just a little of that old black magic." Her finger tickled the underside of his chin, making him want to vomit for a whole new reason. "I'm starting to think we gave you boys too much of it, though. You've been pretty out of it for a whole day! We've lost _so_ much time."

Dean jerked his head away from her touch, glad to have that motor skill at least. There must have been some spell cast over him, keeping his muscles weak and his mind slow. Gradually, he could feel his senses returning; so far he had gained some control over his head and neck, enough to recognize that he'd been blindfolded, which explained the darkness.

"Time for what?" Dean practically growled. "You and your demon buddies gonna have yourselves a little blood orgy?"

The demon chuckled again. "No one told me you were so adorable! Like a little puppy-dog, ain't cha? Just so spunky." Her breath heated the side of his neck, and Dean got the disturbing impression that she was smelling him. "Oh, and I haven't introduced myself, have I? I know so much about _you_, Dean, it's only fair you should know who _I_ am."

"You're dead meat, that's who you are."

"Not quite. My friends call me Madeline."

All at once, where there once was blackness, now was light. So much so that Dean almost cried out with the sharp pain in his eyes. He immediately closed his lids, turning his head away from the unknown source.

The demon-bitch on top of him, however, seemed tickled-pink at his reaction. "Aw, sorry about that, Dean. I just wanted to get a look at your pretty face." She grabbed Dean by the chin and wrenched his face forward, nearly bumping noses with him. Her eyes were the customary pit-fall black, narrowed in speculation as she looked him over. "Hm, shame we've gotta kill you," she said, sounding mockingly thoughtful. "You would have made a nice little toy. Well, maybe there's still a little time for that, you think?" She gave a high-pitched giggle and let go of Dean's face, roughly pushing him away as she got to her feet.

Dean looked up at her from his position of the floor. She was in the body of a young woman, maybe twenty-two or so. Damn demons were so predictable. If they were laying siege to a town, the head bitch _always_ picked a hot chick to possess. "Where's Sam?" Dean barked. His voice was stronger now, his throat not quite so raw.

The demon, Madeline, laughed again. Her head tossed back slightly, sending her wild red curls into a frenzy. "Oh you should have heard yourself when you first came to. You were whimpering like a damn baby. _Sam, Sammy?_" she said in a pitiful, simpering derision of Dean's voice. "You're brother's _fine_. Take my word for it, Dean, you should be more worried about yourself." She gave him a glittering smile as her eyes shifted back to human normalcy. With a wink, Madeline turned and went to the door, ignoring Dean's raspy threats to kill her and all her demon buddies if they so much as _touched_ his brother.

The door clicked closed without a word from her.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Dean's eyes followed a droplet of blood as it fell from the tip of his nose to join a whole pool of crimson beneath him. The droplet made a soft _ker-plop_ sound. He was sitting with his legs splayed slightly, his back against the wall. A pink wall. So he was back at the Pink Place. Bleeding to death, slowly.

In some other part of the house, a woman screamed in assumed agony. A man's distinct voice cried out in protest.

"Sam." Dean's head lifted, ears trained to hear his brother's voice again. It had definitely been Sam. _Yes, yes, come on, Sammy_ – Sam was alive. If he was alive enough to try and fight for some woman's life, then that was piece of mind enough for Dean.

He was just about to scream – anything to let Sam know he was alive too. Just as Dean took a breath in, an acrid smell reached his nose. It made him pause, then stop altogether. That smell…it was familiar.

"Oh shit."

The smell was familiar, because it was the very same thing he'd smelled before passing out in Barry's garage. Not a moment later, darkness came without a blindfold and Dean slipped back into void.

**~o~**

Madeline the demon was happy. She couldn't remember being _this_ pleased with an operation since the time she assisted with the Chicago fire of 1871. This job was bigger, better; the highlight of her career. After this ritual, she'd be the hottest bitch in Hell.

For this reason, Madeline was unabashedly smiling as she left Dean in the attic and went downstairs to the first floor. Her glee only increased with the sight that met her there.

When she'd gone upstairs to pay Dean a visit, there'd been two humans in the room – the Winchester team's better half, and some nameless girl that Madeline's troops had chained up for fun. Well, there was still _basically_ two humans left in the room, the latter was just a bit…spread out. Blood was splattered over the walls, adding a bit of fashion sense to an otherwise _disgusting_ room. Over the fire that was crackling with all the spite of Hell in the hearth, a large cauldron was hung, releasing a delicious scent into the room. Madeline stopped to inhale as she stepped in from the stairs. _Ahh… Nothin' like boiling flesh to calm the mind._ Once the flesh was removed from the girl's bones, she'd make a nice virgin sacrifice for their ritual. Madeline grinned at the thought.

The demon's attention was drawn away from the slowly stewing girl in the fireplace at the sound of someone's sniveling. Her eyes shifted black as they fell upon Sam; the man's arms were tied back, his clothes stained with blood and ripped in many places. He struggled to turn his head, giving Madeline the best glare that he could. With a light laugh, Madeline flicked her fingers, tightening the magical hold that was keeping Sam tethered to the floor. He gave a cry of pain, his teeth gritting.

"Sammy Winchester, so glad you're making new friends," she said, gesturing around to the half dozen demons that had been assigned babysitting duty. Madeline sat herself down in one of the inn's gaudy pink armchairs in front of the roaring fireplace. She crossed her legs daintily and accepted the martini offered to her by one of her associates.

At her feet, Sam Winchester was crouched, forced to kneel with his head practically digging into the rug. The large man standing above Sam pressed his boot harder into the hunter's back, bowing him lower down into what appeared to be a rather uncomfortable position. Sam was cursing under his breath, grunting like some sort of animal. Madeline gave one look to the demon pressing Sam to the floor, and the large man backed off, going to stand by the wall with two others.

"I hate to see you looking so down in the dumps, Sam," Madeline said after a sip of her drink. "You should be _happy_! You're finally going to carry out your destiny, and all thanks to us." She smiled wide, looking over Sam's heaving shoulders. The hunter really did seem pissed off. It was a shame – he would have made just as fine a toy as his big brother.

When Sam looked up at her, it was with as much hate as a human face could muster. There was blood splattered across his cheeks and forehead. Poor little lamb must have been right next to the girl when she was sacrificed. From the looks of all the blood and mushy chunks around the room, her death had been pretty damn messy.

"Where," Sam gasped, his words strained and labored, "where is my br-brother, you bitch?"

Madeline chuckled, shaking her head slowly. She never tired of hearing that word uttered by humans; they were so quick to judge, so willing to condemn _her_, when more often than not, _they_ were responsible for the travesties surrounding them. Madeline was no evil thing. She was merely a natural force, moving the chess pieces around the board – no different than the God who was at the moment absent. Her composure did not change the longer she looked at Sam. Had he any demon blood in his system, Madeline admitted that she would be dead by now, which was why they had been very careful with this job. The Winchester's magic demon-killing letter opener was with the rest of their arsenal; meaning, in the trunk of their car at the bottom of a lake five miles from town. She was in no danger, and so she laughed.

"You Winchesters! You're so _predictable_. First thing you do when you stop coughing up blood long enough to speak is worry about _Dean_?" Madeline sat up in her chair, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. "He doesn't even care about you, Sam. Do you know what he said to me just now? When he woke up, the first thing he begged for was to be let go. He told me we could _have_ you, Sam. He said he was done trying to trust you, trying to keep you from giving in to Lucifer. Dean's turned his back on you, Sam."

"You're lying."

It was the natural response. Madeline knew her words would have no effect other than to rattle Sammy's mental cage just a bit. Yes, the Winchesters were predictable. Despite their seemingly impenetrable bond, they were no more secure about the other than a couple of teenagers out on their first date. Madeline knew this quite well, thanks to Sam's brother – her spell to keep Dean submissive and motionless also had another effect; it allowed her to peek into his mind, literally using his weaknesses to pin him down. The things that Dean's mind offered up were more than enough to cripple both Winchesters for quite some time. Madeline knew all about their "relationship issues" and boy, she was almost ready to recommend the boys to a good couples' counselor.

But oh, Dean Winchester was in for quite the surprise later. Once the spell picked up speed… Madeline wanted to shiver just thinking about it. Dean would be up in his room, mentally writhing on the floor as all of his fears, nightmares, and uncertainties drove him to the brink of madness once the spell released them. Hours would seem like days, the air would taste like acid, Dean's very blood would seem to boil. Yes, Dean Winchester would beg her for death, and Madeline knew just the person to give it to him.

Madeline turned her attention back to Sam, smiling once again. "If you say so, Sam. Now then, if you'll excuse me, I have a ritual to prepare." She got to her feet, throwing aside her empty martini glass. From the pocket of her jacket she removed a long, twisted silver blade. There was instantaneous fear in Sam's eyes that sparked the moment the knife made itself known. He was like a dog that flinched to avoid its master's anger.

"I'll kill you," Sam said. It had become something of a chant, a mantra for him. Madeline didn't try to stop the utterances. He was powerless here. This was _her_ game now.

"Yes, yes, I know," Madeline cooed like a mother would to her child when it's had a bad dream. Crouching, she lifted Sam's shirtsleeve all the way to his bicep. There were pale scars there, left from bullet wounds or stabs. Madeline felt a sense of power at contributing just another mark to the Sam Winchester Museum of Torture. As she petted the man's head, Madeline drove the tip of the knife into Sam's skin, drawing it downward into a large cut. He screamed, which was expected. Madeline only continued to smile. If Dean were still awake upstairs, he would be able to hear every moment of his brother's torment.

The cut on Sam's arm turned into not just a gash, but a symbol. Madeline began to carve into him, drawing out a pattern of antiquated signs and sigils. When she was done, the markings would start at his shoulder and continue all the way down to his elbow. But it would take time. It had to be done perfectly. The location of the markings was no matter, but their precision was key.

Sam's every muscle was taunt as it absorbed the pain. He started to shiver, which Madeline quickly stalled with a bit of demonic control. The only thing he could do now was threaten her, and he did so with gusto.

"The angels, they'll come," he said in bursts of breath that shook. "The angels will come and stop you."

Madeline only laughed. "Don't try to pull a bluff on _me_, boy. Even if they could _reach _you, they wouldn't even bother. I know the angels want this to happen." She looked at the man's eyes, seeing questions there even amongst the agony she herself was inflicting. For a moment she sat back on her heels and chuckled. "Oh, haven't we told you what we're going to do? No, of course we haven't – you've been unconscious all day! Well, get this. It's genius, really. The _whole_ town has been cut off. No one on the outside even knows anything's happening here! They'll think we lost communication because of the storm, and in the meantime, I've got you all to myself, Sammy boy."

"_What are you going to do_?" The question was a demand, a forceful speech that surprised even Madeline.

"Oh well Sam, we're going to call Lucifer to us. That's what this whole ritual is for! You think Lucifer will have a meeting with just _anyone_? He's a busy guy, Sammy. This ritual will _prove_ to him that we have you and your brother trapped. We will offer him your blood, and the blood of virgins, children, the whole nine yards. In just a few days, Lucifer will have his vessel. He will_ make_ you say yes, Sam."

Sam shook his head once. There was sweat on his forehead now, a result of the pain and the blood-loss. "No way. You can't kill all these people." His eyes flicked to the fireplace and he grimaced at the girl's simmering body parts. "Someone is going to stop you."

Madeline's only response was to drive the knife into him and continue the sigil, not pausing a moment even as Sam passed out from the pain.

**~o~**

The next time Dean woke, he was somewhere else.

The confusion was gone, as was his paralysis. The pink walls and frigid air had vanished. Dean stood up from the park bench he'd found himself sitting on. Above, the sky was clear and the sun felt warm on his face. For a moment, Dean forgot his earlier turmoil and allowed himself a deep breath of the fresh air.

"Dean," said a voice. Before he'd even turned around, Dean knew who he would find.

"Cas!" He couldn't stop himself from grabbing the angel by the shoulders and hugging him. The embrace was tightly returned. For a moment they stood there, not moving or speaking. In truth, Dean felt like crying, screaming, grabbing any demon he could find by the throat and spilling every last drop of its filthy blood.

When Castiel spoke next, his voice was calm and soft – the perfect sound in Dean's ears, because gave him more comfort than anything else ever could. "Dean, I don't have much time."

"I'm dreaming, aren't I?" He pulled away from the angel, but his hands remained at Castiel's shoulders, unable to let go of the comfort that he brought.

Castiel sighed, seeming sad about it, too. "You are in Pitchford, Illinois, yes?"

"Yeah. Nice town. You should really stop by some time," Dean said, heavy on the sarcasm. "By soon, I mean right-the-hell-now, Cas. We're in trouble, here." His grip on the angel's shoulders tightened, desperate for Castiel to understand that they wouldn't survive without his help.

Castiel's gaze was heavy and jaded. He out put one hand to Dean's face, comforting him with the soft touch. "I'm sorry, Dean, but this is a complex situation. These demons planned hard for this. It will not be easy for me to reach you."

"But you're _going_ to, right?"

The angel averted his eyes. That sideways glance struck more fear into Dean than he thought he was able to contain. Castiel was doubting himself. The only thing Cas had ever doubted was his faith, and look where that had gotten him; Castiel was close to falling. Now, if Cas had lost faith in Dean's survival, well…

When Castiel returned his attention to Dean, it was to kiss him. That kiss instilled further fear in Dean that he would never truly see his angel again.

"What are they planning, Cas?" Dean said.

Castiel sighed heavily. He turned away from Dean and walked a few paces, only stopping to stare up at the sky. "They plan to complete a ritual that I have only ever _heard_ of. It's called Laqueus. It binds two things together through bloodshed and sacrifice. I think the demons plan to complete this ritual and tie your brother to Lucifer himself. Or if not Lucifer, then to another demon – her name is Mammon. She is the demon of avarice, meaning she is especially greedy and hopes to secure a better seat for herself under Lucifer's favor." Castiel turned to Dean, looking at him as if expecting him to comment.

"Some demon bitch told me her name was Madeline. Maybe that's her?"

Castiel's gaze grew distant. "Yes, probably." The angel looked down at his shoes, sighing once again.

Dean just watched him, looking over every detail, just in case he didn't live through this one. He should have known before that some major shit was about to hit the fan. He should have known it three months ago, the first time he and Castiel kissed. Damn it, at the time, Dean didn't even stop to consider it – what that kiss would mean and what it would change. It had started as their usual comfortable, friendly sort of late-night chat while Sam was several feet away sleeping in his motel bed. Dean had woken up to Castiel's light shakes of his shoulder, and the two spoke in whispers for some time. Dean couldn't even remember what they'd talked about, but damn if it mattered. What mattered was the way that Cas looked in the soft Louisiana moonlight. Dean could still remember the nerves that nearly made him back away as he and Castiel drew closer, finally throwing pretense out the window. That first kiss had been slightly awkward, in retrospect, but the last three months had given them plenty of time to better their track record. Maybe in another month or so, they would have rounded third base.

Karma, of course, had caught up with them. Now, dammit, _now_ they were being forced to save their own lives _and_ the world. All Dean wanted to do was stay with Castiel forever in this dreamscape, but there was a subtle ache in his heart that reminded him his baby brother was in terrible danger.

Castiel seemed to know everything that Dean was thinking. Hell, the angel was probably thinking about the past three months with equal nostalgia. Gently, Cas touched Dean's face, stroking his thumbs over the hunter's cheekbones and jawline, moving down to his throat and collarbones. Dean got the unsettling sense that he was being memorized.

"I will save you," Cas promised.

"I'm not some chick, Cas," Dean said, faking bravado. "I can help too."

A flicker of a smile rose and died on the angel's face. It filled Dean with a sort of pride – pride because this beautiful, untouchable creature was in love with _him_. "I fully expect you to, Dean. I will come to Pitchford soon, but I will not be able to do anything for you today. Infiltrating the wards the demons have set up to keep angels away will take time."

"How much time?" Dean let his forehead drop forward until he was resting against Castiel.

"I can't tell you that. This demon, Madeline, she's a mind-reader. It's part of her power. She uses a person's wants and desires against them. If I tell you my plan, it will ruin our chances."

Dean gave a dry chuckle. "So why come see me at all? Isn't this a bit risky?"

Castiel chuckled as well. He laid a chaste kiss to Dean's lips, saying, "Yes, but I had to see you. I had to let you know that you haven't been deserted. I will save you, Dean." As Castiel spoke, his voice seemed to recede, like Dean was moving away from him. Even his vision was blurring, fading. Dean struggled to cling to Castiel, to get just one more kiss, one more touch, even if it was only a dream. He needed that hope, that assurance. But all he could grasp was the vapor-thin promise from Castiel's lips. _I will save you_.

…**..**

With such abruptness that Dean began to doubt the dream before he'd fully roused from it, he became aware of reality. His muscles hurt from being restrained, and that sour smell of demon magic was once again in his nose. There was blood dried to a thick crust on his face, stemmed from an unknown wound. At least he was alone. If he'd woken to find Madeline in his lap, he might have killed himself trying to kick her to the moon.

Dean let his head loll back so that it hit the wall. God, he'd eat slugs if it would get him a bottle of aspirin. Why did demons always have to go for head-shots, anyway?

For hours, Dean sat and stared at the pink walls around him. The demons had locked him up in the same room that he and Sam had rented out. Hell, their duffle bags were still lying on the bed. Dean could see one of Sam's flannel shirts sticking out amongst his other clothes.

That ritual – the Laqueus. It would bind Sam to Madeline, or so Cas had said. Three days. They had three days to escape. Goddamn it all. If the damn demons didn't kill him, the uncertainty sure as hell would. Dean despised this, this stagnancy. Sam was downstairs somewhere, probably receiving the torture of a lifetime at the hands of some greedy bitch and her lackeys.

_Or maybe not_ _Maybe Sam wants it He's evil you know He'd say yes to Lucifer anyway Sam is corrupted Sam is an abomination_

Dean shook his head, stopping the thoughts he hadn't meant to think. It was as if someone was whispering in his ear. The voice in his head sounded like his mother's. No, no it wasn't his mom, it was John. Or maybe even Bobby.

_And you you're just as bad Those things you're doing with that angel How sick are you You're corrupting an angel of the Lord You belong in hell You deserve to be dragged right back down to the pit How convenient that now Sam can just take you there himself_

Dean didn't even realize that he'd gotten back control of his muscles. Suddenly he was just curled up with his arms thrown up around his head, trying to stop the whispers in his head. The voices came from all sides. He forgot all about Castiel's plan to save him. The more the voices said, the more Dean wanted to scream.

_You are the evil one here Dean You You_

_You're the evil one_

_Corrupt_

_Evil_

_Sick_

When he did start screaming, he didn't notice. The voices took shape, gained form, and crept close enough to jab him with their spindly little fingers.

Maybe he would die in this room after all.


	3. Rebellion

**A/N: You'll probably start to notice in this chapter (if you haven't already) that I'm a horror writer at heart. Hopefully it's not too gruesome – I promise, it'll get better! **

**Tethered**

**Chapter Three: Rebellion**

Human fear was something Castiel knew well. He understood it as a third-party observer might. He was an eons-old seraphim, a soldier of Heaven; fear was a thing he'd seen in its many forms and nuances. It wasn't until he'd dragged Dean Winchester out of Hell, however, that he'd first glimpsed under fear's veil and discovered what it was truly like to feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Now, he was feeling that same dread in a whole new way.

Dean and Sam had been captured. The demon holding their key was strong, ancient, and determined. If that was not a cause for fear, then Castiel couldn't imagine what would be. Castiel stepped into his customary logical point-of-view and knew that he had to rescue them for the sake of their "team free-will" credo. The necessity of saving Sam in particular was staggering. Lucifer could not enter his true vessel, for the obvious reasons. At all costs, Sam had to be rescued before the binding ritual could reach fruition.

Castiel's drive to save Dean had other motives.

"He cannot be killed," the angel said to Bobby Singer. He almost couldn't believe that he'd gone to the old hunter's house for help, but his own pride was the last note of concern amongst this mess. "The demons won't kill either of them. It would be against their goals to kill Dean and thereby make it impossible for him to battle Lucifer."

Bobby was watching Castiel, as the angel had been doing since he appeared after his dreamscape conversation with Dean. "But in the meantime, Dean _and_ Sam're probably gettin' their share of torture," Bobby said.

Castiel came to a halt. It was almost impossible to think logically, not when he was so consumed by images of demons tearing the flesh from Dean's bones. Sighing, he inclined his head to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I am aware."

"_So_," Bobby said gruffly, "what're you gonna do? Seems to me you're just sittin' on your—"

"_I'm not here to procrastinate_!" the angel snapped. He wheeled on Bobby, feeling a fire rear up just beneath his skin. "I am not going to allow that ritual to be completed! But there are things that must be accounted for. The protection wards along the perimeter _alone_ could strike me powerless for days. I-I need your help. My judgment is a little more compromised than usual."

Bobby's brow quirked in confusion, but he didn't press Castiel's last statement. The nature of Castiel's concern for Dean was not something acknowledged out loud by any of them. Not even Castiel and Dean spoke too often about their own feelings – it was a matter best left unsaid, because they'd never needed words to begin with.

"Well," Bobby said after some time, "I can call in a favor. Got a friend out in Cleveland who's an expert on wards. Dunno what he could do about _angel_ wards, though. Not many hunters around who've even seen your kind."

Castiel waved a hand. "No, no, I know how to strip the wards away, but I need help to do it. I cannot get within five miles of that place until those symbols are gone, which requires someone to get up close to them."

"Didn't you say they've got demons at the perimeter?" Bobby narrowed his eyes.

"Yes, I did."

"So if I was to send someone in with you, they'd probably die, is that right?"

Castiel sighed. He should have seen this coming. "There is a chance, yes." He looked the old hunter in the eye, not shadowing his determination behind false concern. Of course he cared for the human lives it may take to assist him, but as Dean would say, he was a "big picture kind of guy." The lives of both Winchesters were vastly more important than anything else at present.

"No dice," Bobby said.

Castiel couldn't say he was surprised. It was the same answer that Dean would have given, no doubt. The angel looked away, toward the window. Even here, the clouds were bleak and heavy. Sunny days were few and far between so close to the end. The angel turned, only lingering long enough to say, "If Dean found out I was willing to sacrifice strangers for him, he would probably consider it some new burden to add to his collection. Maybe it's best that the two of you are so alike. As for me, I'm going to do whatever it takes to save them, even if it requires giving up myself in return."

Bobby was left staring at his empty library. He didn't have to wonder if Castiel was serious in his ultimatum.

**~o~**

Rather than the sun or the time to keep track of how far he was from Hell on earth, Sam could only count the number of bodies brought in. Every day for three days, three pure souls were to be sacrificed. Madeline reminded him of that with every kill. She ran her polished fingernails over his face, cooing like a lover in his ear. The smell of blood followed her like a swarm of insects.

It was the end of his first day as Madeline's prisoner, yet it felt like the end of a millennia. If he were of a sounder mind, Sam would have known Madeline's true identity without ever being told. She was Mammon, the demon of greed. He'd read the lore and he knew her weaknesses. He knew all about her abilities, her powers, because he'd researched her. With all the teasing he took from Dean, Sam never once regretted his college habits.

Of course, despite knowing Madeline's true form, Sam was powerless all the same. His knowledge was her knowledge; his secrets were hers as well. Because of her ability to lift every rug that Sam had ever swept his secrets under, Madeline had an entire arsenal of thoughts, memories, and emotions to keep Sam pinned. He wasn't bound, not physically anyway. There was no need for ropes or chains or locked doors. Sam was a prisoner in his own mind.

At present, Sam was in one of the first floor bedrooms, away from the smell of boiling flesh as it simmered in the fireplace several rooms away. Not even that small amount of relief could be appreciated; his current position was worse. So much worse.

_Jessica's name, it was on his tongue like a hot coal. Her face, oh her face, so young and vibrant, so beautiful and glowing, she smiled at him like the first time they'd made love. To touch her – to touch her would be the answer to it. Jessica could end the pain, could stop the splitting of his ribs and the fire they housed. No, no it wasn't his ribs that burned…it was his head. Something in his head was scratching, clawing, screaming to get out and run. But Jessica…Jessica could fix it all, if only he could reach her_.

Sam was vaguely aware of being on the floor. Dust entered his mouth and nose, almost choking him but not quite having that decency. He wanted to choke. He wanted to fade, to escape. Anything…anything but this.

_She smiled. She smiled and reached out a hand to him – he could touch her if he tried. But it hurt…it hurt too much to move. All at once, Jessica's hand dropped and her head threw back and she screamed. Blood…there was blood down her front, on her dress. Above the screaming – or beneath it – she spoke to him. She called him "murderer" and "freak." She was dead, and Mary was dead, John, Jo, Ellen…everyone. They were dead. Gone._

With screams of his own, Sam gripped his head, pulling at his hair. He tried to pull hard enough that the images would come like weeds pulled from the dirt. But they wouldn't stop. They were inside of him, put there by Madeline herself. Every friend he'd ever had and lost, they were there in his mind to laugh and scream. The memories danced and twisted in Sam's head, warping and changing. The good memories turned bad, and the bad turned worse. The harder his hands pulled, the warmer they became. He wracked his fingernails across his skin, thinking he'd finally breached the surface to relief. So warm…his hands were warm, and the sensation only solidified, intensified. He hardly noticed the blood that was leaking from self-inflicted scratches to his temple. All he needed was the warmth, because anything was better than feeling his insides melt and turn to ice all at once.

At the door to the room, unacknowledged or even noticed by Sam, Madeline stood. She was grinning, twirling her fingers like a blasé conductor as she contorted his thoughts. This was easy work for her, but it was work she clearly enjoyed. And with such a target, torturing Sam Winchester was probably the simplest task she'd ever taken on. Most people's pasts were simple, or only slightly horrific. Sam's entire _life_ was terror, pain, anger, and blood. She'd barely brushed the first of many layers to Sam's psyche, but already her bag of tricks was full to the brim.

Back on the floor, Sam rolled to his back and let out another torrential scream. His back arched, his voice cracked. Too much…it was too much. He felt like he was going to split in half.

_Dean's gone… he doesn't care. He left his Sammy to die, or worse. Sam could see Dean now, as clear as if he stood above him. Dean smirked, shaking his head at Sam, as one might look on a dog in a kennel. "Worthless, you're worthless," Dean said. "You think I don't know what really goes on in your head? You're sick. Disgusting." Dean knelt down before him and grabbed a fistful of Sam's hair, yanking him up until Sam thought his scalp would tear. Warm…it was warm. "I'm your _brother_, Sam. Who has thoughts like that about their own brother? Sick. You're sick." _

When Madeline left Sam, the man was curled against the floor, only saying, "I'm sorry," over and over. It was a pathetic sight, really. She hadn't suspected a man like Sam Winchester to crack so easily. Earlier, when she'd carved a sigil into his arm, Sam had been so fiery, so strong. Madeline had almost started to fear for the strength of her own team in comparison to the rage that Sam was building just beneath the surface. But now he was broken –almost split in too, really.

The markings carved into his flesh would keep him alive no matter what damage he inflicted on himself. It was a spell of Madeline's own design, created to cater to greedy humans longing to survive battle or war. That sigil would protect his physical health until the battle was over; or until the Laqueus ritual was complete. It was ingenious, really.

As she locked the door behind her, Madeline laughed; this little plot was proving more of a dream than she'd ever imagined. The brothers were utterly under her control, and there was not a single sign of activity at the perimeters of town. The protection wards were holding strong, and the third of nine sacrifices was nearly complete. Madeline went to the front room of the inn, following the sound of screams like breadcrumbs.

Tied to a dining room chair was a young girl. She was scarcely older than sixteen. The demons surrounding her laughed and taunted her, slicing into her lush pink skin with flicks of their knives. The girl shrieked with every cut, blubbering out a broken Hail Mary above her cries.

"Boys!" Madeline said. She stood at the threshold of the room with her arms crossed over her chest. The demons backed off immediately. "That's no way to treat a guest," Madeline said, moving toward the girl and cupping one hand under her chin. "Such a pretty thing, too."

The girl looked up, meeting Madeline's eye. Her eyes widened in horror at the sight of Madeline's face. "M-Maddie! No, stop it!" the girl shrieked. "W-why are you doing this?" She struggled under the ropes that kept her bound. Tears fell down her cheeks in fresh waves.

Madeline's brow furrowed. She was confused for a moment, until the answer came from the back of her mind, where the real Madeline Northwick was crouched. The demon smiled, her eyes shifting to black. "This girl is your sister, isn't she, JoAnna?"

The girl in the chair froze at once. She seemed struggling against more tears, but weakly she nodded once.

The demons standing around them began to laugh in one voice. To Madeline's right, someone handed her the twisted blade.

"Maddie, please," JoAnna cried. "_Please_, don't—No! Stop! _Stop_—!"

The girl's screams were cut short. The only sound that followed was the sick thump of something heavy hitting the floor.

Madeline walked several paces away and bent down to pick up the girl's head by the hair. Laughing, she tossed the head into the cauldron above the fireplace.

**~o~**

Dean was never conscious for long. The main focus of Madeline's power was Sam, as she tried to mentally weaken him in preparation for Lucifer's arrival. Because of this, Dean lost track of how long he'd been upstairs alone. When he was awake, it was like living a nightmare. He awoke, and thought he was back in Hell. He saw horrors relived; innocent people he'd failed over the years appeared to have their revenge. The worst waking nightmares involved Sam. His brother would appear kneeling before him, his eyes black as death and his voice slick with arrogance and hatred. It was those nightmares that Dean hated the most.

When he was asleep, though, it was different. A separate world entirely. There was sun, warmth, comfort, and above all, Castiel was there. These dreams never lasted long, but they were enough to keep Dean from losing himself.

In the middle of the second day, Dean lost consciousness. The black-out could have been caused by many things – be it hunger, pain, or fear of the things dancing in the dark corners. But as soon as he slipped away, there was light.

Dean was back in the park. Castiel was already pulling him into his arms, kissing his face, his neck, his lips. They didn't speak for some time. Dean didn't think he could make a sound if he tried.

"I'm almost there, Dean," Cas said softly in the man's ear. "I've got a plan, and tomorrow I'll be able to get you out."

Dean pulled away, looking at the angel in blatant disbelief. "Cas, the ritual will be _over_ tomorrow. We don't have much time. _Sam _doesn't have much time!" He hadn't seen his brother since the day they were captured. Now he could only hear Sam as he screamed. That was the worst torture of all.

"Sam will be alright," Castiel said.

"_How_?"

Castiel only shook his head. "I can't tell you. I'm only able to cloak you thoughts from Madeline for so long, and even then there's no guarantee she won't be able to hear everything we've said."

Dean cursed under his breath. This was not his first time under capture – he'd played the prisoner many times before. But this was the first time he'd been so completely powerless. He trusted Cas. He trusted him with his life and then some. But he couldn't see a way out of this. The wards were too strong, the demons were too numerous, and the bitch at the center was too damn powerful.

Only the feeling of Castiel's hand on his face made Dean look up. To his surprise, the angel looked angry.

"I know what you're thinking, Dean. Even if I can't read your mind, I know that you're losing your faith in me. But after all that we've been through together, is it so much to ask for a little confidence from you?"

Dean sighed. He took Castiel's hand from his cheek and kissed the palm of the angel's hand. "Alright, Cas. But you said there was a part I had to play in this. I want to _help_ you."

Castiel nodded once. "That's why I've come. The next few hours are crucial."

"So what do I have to do?"

"You have to break free of Madeline's hold," Cas said. "You have to fight her control on you."

Dean reflexively shook his head. "I thought you said she was some crazy powerful demon? I'd never be able to—"

"You can do it, Dean," Castiel said. He took Dean's hand and squeezed it, keeping the man's gaze with determination. "You must fight her control and rebel – if only a little."

"A little? What the hell will that do for us?"

The smallest of grins appeared on Castiel's face. He leaned in to kiss Dean once more. "I'd hate to spoil the ending for you."

And then Dean woke up, back in hell.


	4. Mirage of Hope

**A/N: I hope you guys aren't afraid of OCs… they're necessary, but will not interfere with the rest of the canon characters too much. Kinda nervous about putting them in, I'll admit.**

**~o~**

**Tethered**

**Chapter Four: Mirage of Hope**

Pitchford was a well-adjusted town, meaning that it knew full well how out of the way it really was but still managed a quaint, comfortable atmosphere. Its citizens were on the whole born and raised in Pitchford, the majority seeing no reason to leave. The asphalt road running down the main street was only a few years old, and it somehow made even the oldest of Pitchford's shops look newer, better.

Yet, in little less than three days, the town that had once approached picturesque had been flipped, beaten, and buried. Rain, wind, and fear had washed away all that was good, leaving behind the hallowed skeleton of a town now being controlled by something wicked – like a foreign master manipulating a puppet.

At the outskirts of town, the largest men in Pitchford sat on top of their trucks, watching for someone, for something. They held guns, but with an air that the weapons were a precautionary after-thought. What they hunted, what they guarded against, wouldn't be deterred by any human weapon. With their coal black eyes these men waited, never blinking, never moving, never speaking.

The sun was rising on the third day of Pitchford's possession. The storm that had wracked the town without pause had slowed to a drizzle, its wind stalling to the lightest of bitter breezes. In the center of the main road, at the very edge of town in sight of the sign-marked border, a pair of sentinels was blocking the only way into town. One of the men adjusted his position slightly, hitching his left leg higher. He sat on top of the truck cabin, his foot resting on the cavity of the rolled-down window. Another man, another demon, sat in the truck bed, running his hand over his gun like he craved something to shoot at.

Just as the sun was peaking over distant trees, both men sat upright. They sniffed the air, once, twice. The man in the truck bed stood, facing his companion. The man on the roof nodded, sending the other away; he disappeared without a word, as if he melted into the air itself. Now alone, the larger of the two jumped down from his perch and walked around the back of the truck, standing near the back bumper and facing the distant trees. That smell, it was stronger now. It was something musky, subtle yet strong enough to fill his senses.

The next guard post was half a mile away. Two demons were stationed at this interval around the entire border of Pitchford. The stationing of guards was only an after-thought – the real protection came from the enormous sigil drawn by Mammon herself around the entire town. Not an angel in existence (excluding maybe Michael himself) could cross that border without being fried.

The demon approached the inside border of the ward. It glowed hazy and red and emanated a power, a force that could be felt deep inside. Behind this wall the demon stood, a hand at his gun and his senses perked for any sign of an intruder. With the end of the Laqueus ritual so close at hand, he knew that the chance of an attack was great – he also knew what would happen if Mammon decided to blame _him_ for any disturbance at the perimeter.

"I can smell you, lovely! No use tryin' ta hide from me," the demon called out into the rising dawn. The scent was growing stronger, closer. It had shifted slightly, giving evidence of several intruders as opposed to one. "Just come on out and we'll have a chat."

The road into town had been blocked in more ways than one. The off-ramp from the freeway was riddled in detour signs, advertising danger along the road toward Pitchford. For extra security, a mudslide had been fabricated that blocked the road completely. All travelers coming off the freeway would be directed to the next town over. The possibility that this new arrival was human – a _normal_ human, anyway – was next to none. The only beings who would dare approach Pitchford were either hunters or angels with a death wish.

The demon sniffed the air again. There were definitely two humans out there. He swung his head to the left…no, getting colder. To the right…yeah, there it was. With a toothy grin, the demon raised his shotgun in the direction of the scent.

"Come out now, and I promise not to hurt ye'," the demon said in a low rumble. He took aim. In the weak orange light, he could just make out a figure in the distance, standing between the trees. But dammit, even then the figure was hard to see. If not for the wind that blew the stranger's scent straight toward him, it was possible they would have gone completely unnoticed. The demon chuckled. "Promise not to hurt you," he said again. Humans were so—

"What if I hurt you first?"

Before the demon could turn, it was too late. Something was jammed into his side, just beneath the ribs. He let out a scream, dropping his weapon. With several flickering, fiery flashes of light, the demon fell dead. His killer bent down to remove the knife from his back, wiping the blood on her jeans.

"That was so stupid, Gwen. Dammit, I told you we'd only go on this suicide mission if y'_promised_ not t'get yourself killed." A man trotted up to the woman kneeling beside the body. He was tall, well-built, and his voice carried a distinctly southern flavor. His brow was knit sternly as he regarded the woman.

Gwen got to her feet, examining the knife as if her companion weren't even there. "Well hot damn, and here I thought this thing wouldn't work. Who knew a little pig sticker could kill a demon, huh?" She looked up at the man, smiling. When she was only met with a glare, she rolled her eyes. "Christ, Ray, just relax, would yah?"

Ray shook his head. His eyes didn't rest on one thing for long, as if he were wary that any number of nightmares would leap out at then from the shadows. "Where the hell is that angel? He said there'd be _two_ demons here."

"The other demon is dead," said a sudden voice from behind the two hunters. "As are the rest of the guards around the perimeter. All sixteen of them."

Gwen merely cocked an eyebrow at the man, whilst Ray looked utterly startled by Castiel's appearance.

"So how many're left in town?" said the woman. She returned the demon-killing knife to a holster at her thigh.

Castiel wasn't looking at her. He was staring past the two as if transfixed by something. All the hunters could find to be looked at was the gloomy form of Pitchford's outermost buildings several yards away. The angel raised a hand, reaching out like he was going to touch something, but there was nothing there but early-morning fog.

"What's up, chief?" Ray said.

Castiel dropped his hand and cocked his head, barely looking at the two over his shoulder. "The ward set up by Mammon," he said, "is even stronger than I suspected. It may take more energy than I had accounted for."

Something in his voice was so somber that Gwen wanted to sigh – there had to be more to this mission than Bobby had let on. Truthfully, she'd been almost apprehensive to take it on, but when Bobby told her over the phone that the _Winchesters_ were involved, well, she couldn't turn it down. And because she'd decided to go along, Ray came too; they'd never hunted without each other, and to be honest she would have regretted his absence. They were a team, which may have been why she felt so strongly to save the Winchesters; they were a team, too.

Gwen stepped closer to the angel, putting a hand to his shoulder. Touching a soldier of Heaven sort of scared her, sure, but right now the poor guy looked like less of a warrior and more of a desperate…something – her mind offered the word 'lover' to describe him, but the thought was ludicrous.

"Hey," she said, "don't worry. Rufus and his team are with us, right? They'll be goin' in with us, so while you get your strength back, we'll take out as many demons as we can. You've just gotta worry about gettin' your friends out."

To her surprise, Castiel gave a soft chuckle. "For all of your sakes, I pray it's that simple." He looked past Gwen, giving Ray a small nod. The man stepped forward and moved Gwen back with a hand at her hip. "Stay back until I get the barrier down. I don't know how much good your cloaking amulets will do against so many demons at once, but stay together and you might survive." He turned away once again and bowed his head.

Ray and Gwen ran behind the nearest tree. They had been told to stay hidden in case the demons came out swinging once the wards were (hopefully) stripped. All along the border, the other hunters should have been taking cover as well.

As they crouched in the dirt, Ray and Gwen meticulously checked their gear, ammo, and the amulets around their neck. Bobby had managed to whip up a little something that would keep the demons from sensing them so easily – judging by their first easy kill of the day, the spell worked, but for how long they couldn't tell. For the time being they took comfort in the anti-possession charms at their wrists.

Castiel began to mutter under his breath, whispering some language that didn't belong on Earth. His voice carried to them on the wind, and without realizing it, both Gwen and Ray shivered with a mortal fear they could not place.

**~o~**

Dean jolted awake with the taste of bad eggs and sour milk in his mouth. He pushed himself into a sitting position, almost too exhausted to open his eyes. The first thing he realized was that the scent of demon magic was gone – the only sign that he was under Madeline's spell, which had until that point been present like a cloud in the room. He slumped against the wall, not bothering to wonder why he'd fallen asleep on the floor when there was a bed a mere three feet away; maybe it had something to do with the hallucinated snakes he'd seen slithering on the mattress just before losing consciousness.

"Good morning, sunshine," said a terribly familiar voice. Madeline was sitting in the rocking chair in the opposite corner of the room, filing her nails.

"Go to Hell," Dean replied, as he did every time Madeline showed her face.

She dropped her hands into her lap, frowning with enough exaggeration to make Dean sick. "Oh, and here I was hoping we could start today off better than that. You've made me so happy, Dean! My ritual is coming along _perfectly_! And here I thought you would try to ruin it for me." She laughed in a girlish trill, resting her chin on the palm of her left hand. "Just think, we sit on the edge of true destiny, and all you can do is sit there on the floor, crusted in your own blood." She giggled again and stood.

Dean made a dry sound under his breath that under any other context would have been a chuckle. Shaking as he did so, he dragged himself to the edge of the bed and used it to pull himself to his feet. His head spun and his heart was exploding in his ears, but he was determined to meet Madeline's eye, rather than lie huddled beneath it.

"Y'know," he said, voice scratchy and rough, "you demons – I've got a billion reasons to hate you, but the one topping the charts at the moment is, God dammit, you just _love_ the sound of your own voice, don't cha?" He lifted his head to stare hard at Madeline, feeling the dried blood on the back of his neck and his forehead crack. He'd lost count of his injuries long ago, but it was something of a miracle that he hadn't bled out yet.

Madeline regarded Dean as if he were a cat that had learned to tap-dance. "Oh Dean, just wait until the final sacrifice. You'll love it," she said scathingly. "Don't worry, I'll make sure you get a front row seat, seeing as it will be _your_ brother who does the deed."

All of Dean's reserve and control nearly snapped. He almost lost his hold on the bed, which was the only thing keeping him upright. "Sam won't kill anyone, you delusional bitch."

She laughed again. "Me? Delusional? Oh, how adorable. You have _no_ idea what goes on in Sammy's head, do you?"

"Maybe not, but I'm sure you've done enough damage for the both of us."

Madeline took several steps closer to him, looking him up and down with languid sweeps of her borrowed green eyes. She chuckled softly, running one finger down Dean's chest. "I know you two crazy kids have had quite the tragic life and all, but _wow_, Dean, if you only knew." She looked up at him, meeting his hard glare with a bastardization of bedroom eyes.

"What are you talking about?"

Again, she chuckled. Her voice had slipped into a whisper, like she was speaking in Dean's ear with the voice of a lover. "Sam watches you, Dean. He knows everything about you – all of the dirty little secrets you've been keeping, even if you've managed to hide them from me."

Secrets? This bitch had been deeper into his subconscious than _he_ had. Unless…had Castiel managed to lock certain things away? The dreams over the past two days, for sure, had remained hidden, but what other secret was there that Madeline would find so interesting? If she wasn't giddy over the discovery of Castiel's escape plan, then what?

"I don't know what you're—"

Madeline's hand closed around his throat, silencing him immediately. "Oh yes you do, Dean. Remember all the sick little games you've been playing with that angel pal of yours? Sam's known about it all along, and guess what? Out of all the buttons I've pushed, that one's my favorite." Her lips curled into a smile. All at once, she released him and turned toward the door.

Dean finally lost his hold on the bed and slumped to the floor, groaning at the weakness in his muscles.

"See you tonight, lover boy," Madeline cooed from the doorway. "If Sam hasn't lost his last marble yet, I'll be sure to give him your best." She lifted her hand as if to wave over her shoulder, but instead her fingers twirled in the air. A kind of electricity filled the room, bringing with it the stench of demon magic. The door closed and sealed the sickness inside.

A feeling of otherworldly anxiety settled back onto Dean's shoulders. His skin began to itch, twitch, and crawl. Voices crept from the corners of the room, from the cracks of his subconscious, and they told him all the things he'd come to believe.

_He was going to die here. Sam was going to die. Cas would die trying to save them. The world would then follow them into the grave. _

But the rebellion… Cas had mentioned a rebellion that Dean himself would lead – fighting back against Madeline's control. If he could just force his mind to realize that he was strong enough. There was a bathroom adjoining his so-called cell…he could bless some water and—

_No, it was better to die here. Madeline was right. His life was messed up, wasted, tragic… To die would be a relief. He wouldn't have to worry about Sam anymore, wouldn't have to live with the knowledge that everything he had was barely even his. _

Somehow he'd managed to pull himself up into the bed, where he lay limp and sprawled across the mattress. The smell of Madeline's spell had faded to the background of his mind, lingering in the space of familiarity to where he barely noticed it anymore. But the voices, the flashing images, they remained stronger than ever. Hallucinations began, spiraling around him past the point of any reality. As he lay on the bed, Dean clawed at his skin, scratching his temple as if he could pick the nightmares out. Old wounds reopened, blood flowing until his head spun. But he couldn't stop the scratching, the clawing, the desperate hope that nightmares would stop if only he were in enough pain. Castiel had been wrong. He was too weak to fight Madeline – too cowardly selfish. Maybe the reason he couldn't fight it was because deep down, he knew he was better off dead.

"Just kill me already," Dean choked out. "Quite making me wait around for it. Just do it."

Vaguely, he heard the subtle sound of something moving. This wasn't uncommon; his nightmares often chose to take physical form to better torture him. Dean closed his eyes and braced himself for the fresh round of torment.

Some weight settled above him. It positioned itself slowly with careful precision. Dean's first fear was that some reincarnation of Alastair had come calling – that damn demon always did like to toy with him.

"Open your eyes, Dean," said a voice. But it wasn't biting sadism that the voice carried. It was familiar. Familiar enough to make Dean follow its orders.

Looking down at him was the most welcome face Dean could fathom. Nothing could compare to the wave of comfort found in those blue eyes, and for the first time in three days, Dean smiled.

"Castiel."

The man above him seemed to struggle with himself, only after a moment allowing a smile to spread over his face as well. The expression made his eyes glow brighter. "I told you I would be coming for you," he said, his voice a hush. One hand went to the side of Dean's face, warily avoiding the abrasions there. "Just in time, too," he added.

Dean leaned into the touch, not caring about the sting from his wounds when the raw flesh met Castiel's skin. The events of the last three days seemed to melt – if not then ebb into a controllable ball. His angel had come, and finally he was safe. Even the smell of demon magic had faded away, leaving behind a clarity in Dean's head that he'd forgotten once existed.

"Thank you," Dean said on a sigh. He closed his eyes for a moment, but quickly opened them again to absorb Castiel's face. His angel was solid, real. Finally, he could touch Castiel outside the walls of a dream.

Castiel made a sound like a chuckle. "Don't thank me yet. There is still work to do." His smile faded a bit, his eyes glancing away from Dean's face.

Against the groan of his weak muscles, Dean sat up. Castiel shifted to sit beside him, letting the hunter rest against him. "What are you talkin' about?" Dean said. "Isn't Madeline dead? I mean, you're here, aren't you?"

Castiel sighed. "This is as far as I could go. I still need your help." He looked down at his own hand as it clasped around Dean's. "The ritual hasn't been stopped, and Sam is still under the demon's control."

"What! Cas, why didn't you— You coulda told Sam to fight her, too! Haven't you told him we're busting out?" He barely remembered to keep his voice low, now that he knew they weren't out of the woods just yet.

Castiel raised a hand, looking quickly up at Dean with a worried expression. He glanced at the door before saying, "It doesn't matter what I _could _have done. The point is that I didn't, and the longer we sit here, the closer we become to the final sacrifice."

There was a heavy weight in Dean's chest as he sighed. He was trying to keep himself calm. Getting too worked up now would just end in him passing out. Damn, he'd kill for a cheeseburger.

"Alright," Dean said finally, "so what do we do? They make one sacrifice every three hours, starting at three pm." He put a hand to his forehead, for a moment surprised at all the blood there. When – no, _why _– had he done that? Castiel wordlessly handed him a towel from the bathroom, but Dean hadn't even noticed him go to get it.

"How do you know that for sure?" Cas said.

Dean gave a wry laugh, the sound coming out desperate and sad. "The screaming. I can hear it from up here. Usually, Madeline lifts her hold just long enough for me to listen in."

Castiel seemed to wince slightly, but Dean couldn't tell for sure. "By the end of the night, she will be dead. I'll make sure of that."

Dean looked up at the angel. His mind may have been somehow tearing from Madeline's spell (Castiel had undoubtedly seen to that), but there was still some part of him that didn't seem to be working quite right. He still didn't feel completely whole, like something was still chained up and hidden away. For now, though, he would focus on cleaning away some of the blood on his face. It hadn't bothered him until then.

"How are we gonna save the other sacrifices, then?" Dean said after some time.

"What?"

Dean fixed Cas with a focused look. "We have to get them out, Cas. They're innocent people!"

For a moment, Castiel said nothing. He was looking at Dean carefully, his face blank. When he opened his mouth, there was a smile tugging at the corner of it. "Even so close to death, you never stop being a Winchester. What will it take to make you stop wanting to risk yourself for strangers?"

Dean felt himself smirk. The response was so effortless in Castiel's presence. "Nothin' known to man or angel, I'm afraid." He chuckled. "You have a plan right?" His tone grew serious again. The threat of more blood on his hands was terrible now that he knew it could be avoided. He didn't think he could handle the screams again. As it were, he'd only barely survived them.

Castiel nodded once. "I always do, Dean."

There was the sudden sound of footsteps behind the door, and both men turned toward it. Dean's heart raced instinctually, and he almost moved to stand – he wanted to fight.

Castiel put a hand to the hunter's shoulder, keeping him on the bed. "No, Dean," he whispered. "You can't let them know I've been here. Keep behaving as normal. If they suspect us, we'll never make it. Do you understand?"

Dean had no choice but to nod, although every part of him wanted to go through that door and fight whatever demon he found behind it.

"Good. I will return when the time is right," Castiel said somberly. He made to stand, but this time it was Dean who stopped him.

"Cas," Dean said, but couldn't put into words what he was feeling. He found himself doing nothing but stare at the angel, who had no trouble staring right back at him.

Swiftly, Castiel leaned down and pressed his lips against Dean's. The warmth and security of the act made Dean wonder why he hadn't kissed Cas the moment he saw him. In an instant, all the tender exchanges that had come to pass flashed before Dean's eyes. He longed to open his eyes and find them back in the motel room where they'd shared their first kiss, or the back seat of the Impala where they'd taken their emotions further. Why hadn't he known back then that all his happiness was an illusion? If he'd been aware of what was to come, he would have never let Castiel out of his arms.

More footsteps sounded just beyond the door. Castiel pulled out of the kiss before Dean could stop him.

"I will return," Castiel said, and was gone.

Even as the door opened and a demon looked inside the room to check on the prisoner, Dean remained staring at the empty space where Castiel's eyes once were.


	5. Tearing Through

**A/N: This story has sort of grown organically. The original idea I had for it was **_**way**_** simpler and involved far more sex. But…oh well! Man, can't believe this monstrosity is already 5 chapters… Thanks to everyone who's taken an interest! :)**

**Tethered**

**Chapter Five: Tearing Through**

There were more demons than anyone had expected. Too many demons and not nearly enough hunters. If Castiel had known about the disadvantage, he'd done a bang-up job keeping that factoid to himself. Gwen would have been angry, but there was no time for angry – at least, no time to use her anger against anything but the black-eyed sons-a-bitches pouring out of every home, business, and garage in Pitchford.

They'd entered the town with ten hunters. It was barely past four in the afternoon, and they were down to five.

"Gwen, stop!" Ray grabbed onto the back of her jeans and yanked her back into the blocked-in alleyway they'd stopped to reload in. Nothing stood between them and the silent, ominous street but an empty dumpster. Mere yards away, the bodies of demons and hunters alike lie on the concrete with their insides on their outsides. Some of the demons had chosen to skip out in the middle of the fight, leaving their meat-suits behind; the remaining hunters took no chances and made the decision to destroy the empty bodies and avoid the demons' return. It was a sight that Gwen wouldn't ever be able to forget, but for now she was filing it under, '_not as important as suriving_.'

Gwen wheeled on her partner. The toe of her boot was still poised between the dumpster and the wall as if she were in mid-leap out of the hidey-hole. "Ray, we can't just hide here!" she snapped. "We've gotta get to Rufus and the others."

The only grace they'd been given was that Bobby's cloaking charm seemed to be holding up. Demons had super-human senses, like really messed up Spidermen. The amulets that Bobby had given them and the rest of the hunters dulled those senses, giving them an equal playing field. They'd been warned that the effects would wear off.

Ray glanced over his shoulder. They were in a small pocket of space between a general store and an antique shop. Not four feet behind them, a tall wooden fence blocked their backs, while the dumpster kept them safe from the front. But the protection was temporary, and mostly just a false-sense. Clicking fresh salt rounds into his shotgun, Ray shook his head, sighing. "Gwen, please, just relax, goddammit." He sounded collected, even calm. Despite his occasional paranoia, Ray was a rock foundation in crisis. A natural leader, he only ever lost his cool when Gwen put herself in danger. It was for this reason that his hands shook as he checked his gun.

"Relax?" Gwen hissed. "How the fu—" Her words cut off, choked in her throat.

"Gwen?"

Her spine went ram-rod straight, ears literally perked toward some sound out in the street. She held a silencing finger to Ray, which he unquestioningly obeyed. Gwen's heart pounded in fresh leaps and bounds as she peeked between the dumpster and the wall. The sliver of sight was too small for her to see anything but the unmistakable sheen of blood on the pavement. But there were footsteps. The sound grew closer with clarity.

Ray's hands tensed on his gun. Before Gwen could stop him, he leapt to his feet and aimed above the top of the dumpster. She followed suit – her instincts wouldn't allow Ray to be a sitting duck all on his own.

"Oh, you're alive," said an unperturbed voice. The man looking back at them was utterly unmoved by suddenly being a target. But then again, not much surprised Castiel.

"Damn angel," Gwen muttered out the corner of her mouth. She lowered her gun, glad that at least she hadn't _shot_ the guy; that would have been rude. Ray wasn't so quick to lighten his defenses.

"What the hell's all this, huh?" Ray snapped. "You tell us we're here to save the Winchesters, right? S'were the hell are they! People are _dead_ cause 'a you, asshole!" He shoved his way past the dumpster and stalked toward Castiel. His fists were clenched, but at least he'd lowered his gun.

The angel only turned his head away from Ray, looking up the street. "I can't be sure, but I sense that Dean and Sam are being kept in that pink house." He pointed to a horrid pastel building several blocks away.

Gwen came up behind Ray and put a hand to the man's arm. The two exchanged glances, but after a moment Ray sighed heavily and jerked out of Gwen's touch. He positioned himself away from Castiel, keeping his back to the angel. Ray was still noticeably agitated, but he began keeping an eye out for more demons – Gwen figured he just wanted something to shoot at, but something told Gwen that they wouldn't run into any trouble while Castiel was with them.

"Cas," she said, keeping her voice soft nonetheless, "why can't you just go in there and do your thing?"

"You mean kill Mammon and save my friends?" He didn't look at her, only stared at the far off building.

"Well, yeah."

Castiel sighed, his chest heaving like someone coming up for air. It was then that Gwen noticed blood on his coat and rips in his shirt. He must have only just returned from the forest, where he'd been forced to go and rest after taking down the wards at the border. The effort had nearly killed him, but he was making up now for lost time. Gwen could only imagine how many demons he'd killed.

When he spoke, it was with that same melancholy tone that Gwen had heard earlier in the field. "I'm afraid that will be impossible until Dean manages to break the demon's hold on his mind. Did Bobby explain the nature of her powers?"

Gwen nodded.

"Well, then you know it would be suicide for you, me, or anyone to enter that place now. Her powers are such that they create a whole new atmosphere. No one but a demon would be able to withstand entering that house long enough to do what we've come here to do." The angel sighed again. "Until a hole has been punched in Mammon's illusions, Sam and Dean are under her ultimate control. Wrenching them out before she's dead would kill them."

"She's that strong?"

Castiel finally looked back at her. The heaviness in his eyes answered the question for him.

**~o~**

Dean should have known it would be impossible to save the victims due to be killed that day. The first sacrifice was at three in the afternoon; a little boy this time. He wept and shrieked for his mother, his cries going beyond any sort of comprehension as the demons tore him limb from limb. Just after four, two of the participants came into Dean's room, covered in the boy's blood and eager for more. Dean would have fought them, but dammit, he was so _weak_. The demons beat him, torturing him better than any of Madeline's fabricated nightmares had ever done. When they left, Dean collapsed into a corner and lost consciousness. His dreams were empty that time, with no vision of Castiel to keep him company.

But when he awoke, Cas was there.

"Cas," Dean said in a strangled voice. He was close to tears, broken all over again. "Cas, what are you doing? Get me out of here, _please_."

Castiel only shook his head. He had blood on his coat, dirt on his face. He'd been fighting, and now he was here – so why wasn't he taking Dean away? "I'm sorry," the seraphim said, "but I can't do that yet. You still haven't done your part."

"What, Cas, _what_? What's my part?" Dean's voice cracked, falling into raw pieces. "Stop jerking me around! _Help_ me!"

The angel leaned in close, close enough to kiss the shattered man on the floor. His lips stopped a hair's breadth away and whispered something. Dean had to strain to hear him. "You're already doing it, Dean. Stand up."

"Locked," Dean croaked automatically.

Castiel shook his head again. "Have you tried it?"

But the terrible truth was that he _hadn't_. It was only then that Dean realized it. Three days locked in that room and he never once tried to just open the door. Some kind of light bulb seemed to spark in the corner of his mind, illuminating the most obvious solution so much so that Dean was humiliated at having not tried it before. All at once, he found the will to stand. He was exhausted and weak – not to mention physically injured from his most recent beating – but suddenly the drive to stand mattered more than any of that. Castiel stood back, allowing Dean to rise without aid. Maybe Cas knew that Dean needed to do this for himself; the man was nothing if not stubborn as shit.

The few steps across the room were agony, and Dean nearly bit off his lip as he choked back pain. When he fell against the doorframe, one arm landing heavily against it, he remained motionless and panting for a moment. Suddenly the thought of having to move again to actually test the doorknob seemed impossible.

"Do it, Dean," said Castiel's voice in his ear. "You've got to."

Later, Dean would wonder why Cas didn't just open the damn door himself. But in that moment, everything seemed to rest on turning that handle. Could it be possible that he'd had the ability all along to free himself?

One hand that he hadn't realized was slicked in sweat and blood closed over the brass doorknob. He waited for something to happen – like a booby-trap in an _Indiana Jones_ flick. "Here goes nothin'," Dean muttered, and turned the knob.

It opened.

**~o~**

Every plan has its chinks, its weak links and loosely-tied ends. Not even a demon can escape error, and Madeline should have known that. She had never accounted for strength of human spirit, a will to live greater than the acceptance of death. The biggest patch of thin ice in Madeline's plan had always been Dean Winchester.

A hole had been punched – torn, rather, because to punch implies intention. Dean hadn't known what opening that door would do, which is exactly what made it work. He'd proven himself an equal match to Madeline's tricks.

And Castiel was ready. Through all the doubt of his fellows, and the tremors of doubt within himself, he was there. The hole torn would not be repaired, because he was there to stop it from mending. He would tear as many wounds into as many beings as it took, because nothing would split Dean from him again.

_**Ah! Sorry for the short chapter! **_

**Just a quick side-note: If you would please take a moment to go to my profile page and participate in the poll I have posted there, that would be a big help. I'm considering posting a new story up, but first I want YOUR opinion! :) Thank you very much for reading!**


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